by J. R. Ward
Going down the wall units, he looked at the names that had been printed on index cards and slipped into brackets on those shoulder-wide doors.
Sure enough, at the other end, there was one that read, BARTEN, CECILIA.
On some level he was surprised her remains were still here, but then he reminded himself that it only felt like forever since he’d found her in that quarry. In reality, it had been a mere matter of days, and she was, after all, part of a criminal investigation.
Not that any member of the CPD was going to be able to find Devina and hold that demon accountable for the death.
That was his job.
Lifting his hand, he touched the stainless steel. Sooner or later, Sissy’s mother was going to have the chance to bury her child, and that kind of cold closure was rather like the cooling space the bodies were kept in, wasn’t it.
A lock-in where the grief was stored for the rest of someone’s days—
Jim frowned and cranked his neck around, his senses going off on a lot of levels.
With a curse, he pushed his way out of the examination facility, through the receiving office, and into the hall beyond.
Seek, he thought…and ye shall find.
Too bad everyone showed up at the same time.
“You know what I like most about hospitals?” Tony asked.
As Mels walked with him up to one of St. Francis’s huge buildings, she waited for the automatic revolving door to give them an opening. “Not the food.”
“Au contraire—the vending machines.” As they shuffled through the entrance together, he shoved his hands into the front pockets of his khakis and came out with all kinds of change. “They’ve got such a good selection here.”
“Well, you can put your quarters away—it’s my treat.”
“Tell me something…why aren’t we dating?”
Forcing a laugh, she thought…man, he didn’t want her to answer that. And neither did she.
As they came up to a knot of medical staff and visitors playing elevator bingo, they hedged their bets on the first set of doors because it was the least congested. Seconds later, there was a bing, that particular car arrived—and it was headed down.
“We have chosen wisely,” Tony said in an affected voice.
Mels laughed as they waited for some uniformed security guards to step out; then they got in along with a construction guy and his tool belt.
Miracle the man could still walk with all that hammer and screwdriver stuff hanging off him.
When they arrived at the basement floor, Tony hung a louie, and so did she. Hammer guy followed suit, making it three for three, although he stepped out in front of them, heading for the distant sounds of nails being struck and band saws whining their way through two-by-fours.
“We may have to wait,” Tony said as they followed the signs to the morgue. “Suraj said he’d sneak out when we got here, but—”
Both of them stopped as they turned the corner.
CPD blue unis were everywhere, choking the entrance to the morgue.
“Guess the investigation is still in full swing,” she muttered. “You sure your buddy can get out of there at all?”
“Yeah, let’s see how he’s doing,” Tony said as he texted on his phone.
As her mind locked onto something other than Matthias, it was just the distraction she wanted—and she hoped this took a while. God knew the last thing she needed was free time and a car. She was liable to end up back at the Marriott, where Matthias might well be having dinner with Hot Stuff—or worse.
But come on, the fact that he had a forty-caliber gun did not mean he’d shot anybody. She had a nine-millimeter in her purse and that didn’t make her a suspect in every shooting downtown—
“Damn it.”
Tony looked over. “Huh?”
“Nothing. Just frustrated.”
“Maybe this will still work—” As his cell let out a Tweety Bird sound, he checked the text. “Oh, good, Suraj’s not going to leave us hanging. Let’s wait over in…Oh, look. Vending machines. What a surprise.”
Sure enough, across from the morgue there was a break room with all kinds of caloried slot machines. “You planned this.”
“Not the cops part.”
As they went in and Tony sized up the offerings, Mels paced around the tables that were bolted to the floor and the orange plastic chairs that were not—likely because the latter were so ugly and uncomfortable no one would want to steal them.
Remembering her promise, Mels took out her wallet and counted her dollar bills. “Don’t hold back. I got plenty.”
“This is just a snack before dinner, really. And I don’t like to eat alone.” He looked over his shoulder. “Hello? Wingman?”
It was sad that she found it relaxing to think of nothing but what kind of overprocessed, mass-produced, worse-than-nonorganic she wanted.
Sure sign she needed a vacation. And a life.
“Have you made your choices?” she said as that band saw down the hall got to screaming again.
“You’d better believe it.”
Seven singles into the machines later and Tony had a collection of nacho bags and candy bars in his hands.
“Now it’s your turn,” he said.
“I don’t have your metabolism.”
Tony rubbed his belly. “Neither do I.”
She picked M&M’s, the plain old-fashioned kind that she’d loved as a kid, but she’d run out of bills. Putting her hands into every kind of pocket she had, she brought out a palmful of loose coins and fished her way around for quarters—
Mels froze.
“What?” Tony asked from where he’d sat down.
A bullet casing. That was what.
In her frickin’ pocket?
Except then it came back to her as she picked the thing out of the mismatched coins…that garage out in the farm country. Where she’d found a Harley with a warm engine, Matthias with a lie on his face, and…something else….
Someone else—
A sudden sharp shooter went through her head, the pain clogging her thought processes, and shutting everything down…but for the conviction that she’d seen something important out there. What had it been, though?
Pushing hard, her mind just couldn’t seem to put a name to the proverbial song, and the more she tried, the more it hurt.
“Mels?”
“I’m okay. No, really, just—I probably need the sugar.”
Tony nodded as he popped open a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos. “A pick-me-up is never a bad thing.”
A compact guy in a white coat came in. “Hey, sorry to keep you waiting.”
Tony got up to shake hands. “Suraj, hey, man.”
Shaking herself back into focus, Mels put the bullet in her purse and struggled to get through the hellos.
“We don’t mean to take you away from your work,” she said as they all clustered around one of the tables.
“Yeah, well, there’s hasn’t been much of that going on today.” Suraj smiled, his teeth white against his beautiful skin. “The police have been here grilling us about that body that disappeared since this morning.”
“What can you tell us?” Tony asked around a mouthful of crunching.
“Off the record, it’s the one that was found in the Marriott basement last night.” Suraj shrugged and settled back into his orange seat like his butt was well familiar with the ugly chairs. “I don’t know much. I came in at noon for my usual shift, and the CPD was all over the place. Rick’s been the guy on the front lines of the questions—he was the one who discovered the body was gone. Went to pull it out to do an autopsy, and…nothing. Not there. It’s too weird—I mean, it’s not like the dead guy walked out or something. But no alarms went off, and bodies are not easily hidden—not as if you’re going to smuggle one out under your armpit. Plus, this place? Eyes everywhere. Security cameras, people—”
“Has this ever happened before?” Mels asked.
“If it did, it was before my time. T
hen again, I’ve only been here a couple of years. It’s a mystery.”
“Will you let us know when you can give a statement?” Tony interjected.
“That’ll have to come from my boss, but I’ll keep you posted under the table as much as I can. Now, what can I do for you?”
Tony glanced over at Mels as he picked up a little Cheetos bag and motioned to the guy with it. “So, Suraj isn’t just good at what he does here. He’s also got a knack for photo analysis, which is why I think he can help you.”
Suraj smiled again. “I’m a jack of three trades, actually—I also make a mean chicken tikka masala.”
“With the garlic naan,” Tony added. “Pure awesomeness.”
“So what kind of image are we talking?” his friend asked.
Mels took out the folder Monty had given her. “Before you look at all this…I can’t tell you who gave these to me or in what context they came into his or her possession.”
“What you’re saying is, I should forget I ever saw them.”
“Exactly.”
As the man palmed the folder and opened it up, Mels frowned and looked around. That sense of being watched ratcheted up again, tingling her nape and making her clench her hands. Except there was no one in the entryway. No one in the hall beyond. Nobody lurking behind Tony’s vending machines or under the godforsaken chairs or the bolted-down tables—
“I know this case,” Suraj said as he flipped through the pictures, and Tony leaned in for a look-see. “Yeah, this is the prostitute who was found at that motel—I recognize the clothes. These markings were not on her abdomen when she came in here, though.”
“And that’s the issue.” Mels reeled her paranoia in. “The official photographs of the body don’t show anything, but these, which are claimed to have been taken before the CPD ones, do. So I want to know if these images are touched up in some way.”
Suraj looked across the table. “Do you have the files for these images? JPEGs? GIFs?”
“No, the printouts were given to me, and they’re all I’m going to get.”
“Will you let me take these into my workspace for a minute? I’ve got a microscope back there.”
Mels eased in closer. In a low voice, she said, “The police do not know about these photographs, and I’m not sure what their owner is going to do with them.”
“So keep it quiet.”
“But know that I will not obstruct justice if that’s what this comes down to. I haven’t had them long, and I will move fast with the authorities as appropriate.”
“But you probably don’t want me scanning these into my computer and doing an analysis that way, do you?”
“I’d rather not make any copies—especially not in e-form.”
“Okay, I can tell a lot under the microscope.” The guy got up. “Give me ten and I’ll see what I can do.”
As Suraj left and Tony played point-and-shoot with one of the rubbish bins, Mels rubbed the back of her neck and thought of what she’d found in her damn pocket.
“I don’t suppose you know anyone who’s into ballistics?” she said.
“As a matter of fact, I do. What you got?”
Mels massaged her temples. “A headache, actually.”
“You haven’t bought your food yet. Much less consumed it.”
“Good point, my friend.” She got up and headed for vending heaven. “Very good point.”
As Jim stood just inside the break room across from the morgue, he got up close and personal with the fact that invisibility had its benes—and sometimes could put your balls on the rack.
He’d known the moment Mels Carmichael had entered the St. Francis medical center complex, and given the number of cops in the basement, it hadn’t been a total surprise that she’d beelined for right where he was. Unfortunately, he’d also sensed a reflection of Devina somewhere around—but he couldn’t quite pinpoint it.
And then he’d seen those photographs.
Unlike the reporter, her buddy with the munchies, and the doctor-type in scrubs, he knew exactly what those markings were—as well as who put them there.
And who had taken them off the body.
Those runes in the skin of that dead woman were exactly what had been on Sissy’s abdomen. A language, a marking, maybe even a message. And what Devina could carve in could probably be lifted—after all, she routinely created a three-dimensional image of perfection over her true, walking/talking corpse self.
An eraser job was not outside the realm of possibility….
As the guy with the hospital pass hanging from his lapel got up and left, Jim followed him and those pictures into the morgue, even though there was nothing he could do—and leaving the reporter was probably not the brightest idea.
Except why would Devina be fucking around with killing some random human woman? You’d think she’d be too busy worrying about the game—and that prostitute had clearly not been a virgin, so it wasn’t like she could be used to protect the demon’s mirror—
Hair color. Blond hair color.
Straightened hair.
Just like Sissy.
What were the chances. “Motherfu—”
The hospital guy stopped dead in the middle of the CPD clog and looked behind himself—and Jim sent a reminder to his mouth that invisible was one thing; silent was another.
As the man led the way down a hall and into a cramped, tech-heavy office, Jim stayed out of the way, settling back against a whiteboard marked with a grid of names, dates, and procedures. When the phone rang minutes later and the guy got distracted, Jim wanted to yank the cord out of the wall and refocus the bastard.
But come on. He already knew the deal; the question was who to be more pissed off at. Himself. Devina—
Jim frowned, as something dawned on him. During the check-ins with Adrian this morning, the angel had mentioned he’d been hanging out at a murder scene with the reporter.
What a frickin’ coincidence.
It was a good half hour before the man got up from his crouch over the scope to head back out to the reporter and her carbo-loading friend.
“So what’s the verdict,” she asked as he sat down.
“Okay, first the caveats. Without the digital file itself, or the ability to pixelate it and run a scan, I really can’t give you a one hundred percent—”
The sound of clanging above their heads had all three of them looking up and then shielding their eyes as a shower of fine particles sifted loose from the ceiling squares.
“How long’s this construction been going on?” Tony asked while a shrill grind of a saw played chaser.
“For. Ever.” The man lined up the photographs on the table. “Anyway, disclaimers aside, here’s what I think. From what I can see under the scope, it appears as if there was no retouching done—but that’s not really saying much, given that I only have the printouts, and people can do some pretty subtle, sophisticated stuff with images if they have good enough equipment.”
Mels inhaled deeply. “Well, thank you—”
Suraj put up his palm. “Wait, I’m not finished. I saw that body. There was a rash in the abdominal area, but obviously that’s not what’s in these photographs. And I remember that pattern—it’s also on the girl who was found in the quarry—”
Another sound, louder, like thunder, reverberated through the ceiling…as if something had been dropped on the tiles directly overhead.
The last thing Jim saw before all hell broke loose was Mels sending a glare heavenward. One second later, a six-by-eight-foot section of the suspended ceiling broke free of its maze of girders and swung down in one piece, hinging on where it was still attached.
Firing right at Mels.
Jim flipped into action, surging forward, shoving her off that orange chair and out of the way. His back and shoulders took the brunt of the impact, the sharp-edged weight cutting into him, drawing blood as everyone in the room shouted and ducked for cover.
The pain caused him to reveal himself, but that wasn’
t the biggest problem. Looking up through the dark hole in the ceiling, he locked eyes with…a construction worker who was illuminated by the light flooding upward from the break room.
Standing with his boots planted on the rafters and his hands on his hips in the vast space above, the man was not right.
His eyes were black as the depths of Hell.
“Devina,” Jim hissed.
All at once, the worker grabbed his chest and started falling forward, his body slumping with a curious grace, the ends of all those tools on his belt flaring out like a model’s hair in front of a fan.
Jim played buck-stops-here for the second time, catching the guy in a sloppy grab because loose, limp bodies, though they weighed less, were messier than hunks of ceiling.
There was an abrupt explosion of talk, but Jim didn’t pay any attention to it. He was too busy easing the unconscious worker onto the floor—and sensing Devina’s abrupt departure.
Damn it…
“Oh, dear God,” Mels said, crouching down.
A sharp elbow pushed Jim aside, the man with the hospital badge getting on his knees and putting fingertips to the side of the construction guy’s throat. As Jim stepped out of the way—
“Jim Heron.”
Jim looked at the reporter, who was staring up at him as she rose from the floor. Fucking hell, he thought as she squared off at him.
“Well?” she demanded, seemingly undaunted by the fact that she’d nearly been killed. “And don’t deny it. I’ve seen your picture in a lot of places.”
“I’m his twin brother.”
“Really.”
The medical guy looked up. “Someone call extension nine-zero-zero-zero on that phone. Tell them we’re outside the morgue.”
Matthias’s girl snapped into gear, discharging the directive calmly and quickly. When she came back, she went over to her newspaper colleague, who, in spite of the drama, had managed to peel back the wrapper of a Snickers bar and get munching.
“You okay?” she asked him.
“Close call,” he muttered, staring at the medical drama on the floor at his feet.
Mels relocked her eyes on Jim, and then she grimaced and rubbed her temple like it was aching.